


Rocks Fall

by Kahvi



Category: British Actor RPF, Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: Light BDSM, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 19:08:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't <i>love</i>, he tells himself, nor infatuation; this is circumstance and proximity and friendship. Martin is wonderful, and Ben is single and Martin is partnered, which makes it safe in such myriad wonderful ways; safe to think about him like this, safe to prod the emotion, turn it this way and that as he admires Martin from afar and too close up, and then afar again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rocks Fall

**Author's Note:**

> This is not a story about the _real_ Benedict Cumberbatch or Martin Freeman; it is just taking their public personas for a fictionalized, no-harm-intended spin. It makes no assumptions about their personal lives, about which this author knows nothing and does not wish to speculate. 
> 
>  
> 
> To Roadstergal, for everything.

This is the sort of thing that happens with actors, Ben knows that. 

Close quarters, forced and immediate intimacy; a sort of emotional cabin fever, though not an unpleasant one. Of _course_ you fall in love with your co-stars. Of _course_ you do; your life now suddenly revolving around them in brief, extactic bursts of intensity. You _have_ to love and hate instantly; that's part of the job, a job Ben is good at. He's seen it happen, and when it happens to him, he lets it fuel him and waits for it to go away. He is pretending to be a man pretending to be a man without emotions; repression is second nature, at this point. Of _course_ it will go away; he is a thirty four year old man; he is not really in love with Martin Freeman! 

When it doesn't, that's OK too. It isn't _love_ , he tells himself, nor infatuation; this is circumstance and proximity and friendship. Martin is wonderful, and Ben is single and Martin is partnered, which makes it safe in such myriad wonderful ways; safe to think about him like this, safe to prod the emotion, turn it this way and that as he admires Martin from afar and too close up, and then afar again. They move in the same circles and they love this show, Martin to the point where he would turn down Peter Jackson, for god's sake! They love working together. That is all. Ben eats their joint lunches without sitting too near, without touching effusely. (Without touching at all, unless Martin does, and he does all too often, and it's so silly, the whole thing!)

If not infatuation, it truly is a rush; a high, definitely a dependancy. He plays this game in his own mind; asks himself what he would do if reciprocity were possible, with this (and he knew what _this_ was, or even what he himself wanted). He sees Martin naked (dressing room, fresh from the shower) and tries not to think about it; reads things he shouldn't have in tabloids and buries it in unimportant corners of his mind.

He comes to Martin's home once, twice; sleeps in his spare bedroom, and is thankful that the house is large and the room itself so far from the master bedroom, and even that thought shames him, makes him sleep on top of the covers, shaking in the cold. Better, that. It is not the only home in which he is a welcome outsider; so many of his friends let him burrow temporarily into the nest of their families, lets him hold their babies and play with their toddlers and dine with them all, like him and Martin and Amanda at the breakfast table, their children climbing him like giggling mountaineers. Isn't he just such a lucky pervy old bastard? He flirts with Amanda and feels vaguely worse for that, in a clammy, uncomfortable sort of way. 

After each visit, it takes thirty apologetic texts and as many days for Ben to relax and forget about it, much as he's ignored Martin's teasing, half-confused replies. Martin doesn't understand; why would he? He can't, and he never should. Ben is an uncomplicated, easy thing in his life, and this is his value. This is the one thing he can give, besides carefully metered out affection; a soft sort of stability. That is not something to break; rocks would fall and people would die. 

And yet, and _yet _! He bathes in every little compliment, any attention given, each ambiguous tawdry comment that the man has to be doing on purpose. That's the laddish luvvie way, darling! Everyone thinks you're fucking, so play pretend like you are. They get drunk, at the BAFTAs, Martin riffing on some joke that's long since lost its meaning to any of them. They drink some more, Martin laughing and rejecting Ben's weed, so Ben smokes some hurriedly out back, needing his sharp corners polished. But Martin is gone when he comes back. There is nothing else to the evening but drown his mind to keep it from eating itself. Again and again.__

In the end, he has to tell someone. James listens quietly and laughs with him, and tells him it's nothing, which is what Ben was already telling himself. Somehow, it doesn't help. It is nothing, it is friendship, but that label fits uneasily. Ben thinks of Fry and Laurie and that makes sense for about a week. It is a quiet, lovely week, in which he does not once think in messy circles of confusion and guilt. He writes a poem. He throws it away. He writes another one and keeps it on his iPad, forgetting now and then and panicking. Everything is _fine_. 

LA is so quiet and so calm and so zen, and even Ben laughs as he thinks this to himself. But there are distractions here, everything carefully planned out, from each hour of his day to each meal he eats within them, and that makes things easier. He needs personal freedom, but sometimes he needs this more, and that thought sits uneasily. He remembers the URLs and what oddities to search for, and sometimes he does, because there are times when Simon will be on the phone to someone, and Ben can't concentrate until he knows it isn't _him_. Not that the cocks and arses in that painstakingly accurate art is what's on his mind; if this (whatever this is) has taught him anything, it's that he's definitely heterosexual. Mostly. Not to a fault, but he so very rarely dreams of tight warm places and heat, and how bodies might fit. Mouths. He thinks about that. Lips. Wet tongues. Yes. His body builds and then recedes, like the ebb and flow of his mind. 

They meet so fleetingly so often these days. Perhaps that doesn't help; there is more time to think in between points of contact, and no time to talk during them. When they have several _days_ at the Emmys, it is an utter indulgence. Martin flirts more than usual, and it is a relief, knowing they have this, that it is OK and that it can be nothing else. Ben tells himself that in his half-sleep, chasing away drunken dreams. He talks to James for hours, getting nowhere, and when Martin hugs him goodbye in the morning, Ben hugs him back. They next meet at the Tokyo airport, but only very nearly so; arriving and leaving. Little drops of togetherness.

* * *

It is late. Everything is dark and quiet and the party has all but died down. "I trust you, mate," Martin says in his ear, and Ben nods, his head lighter than the smoke around them. "Could you mind the kids tomorrow?"

"Of course," he answers, already anticipating. He loves them, too. 

"Amanda could stay home, but it's no fair on her, really. She's going out to have her own fun." 

"Mm." Smoke. Acrid, like the feel of Martin's jumper. 

"I don't do this very often, you know."

Do what, Ben doesn't ask, too tired and drunk to keep up. Instead, he nods. 

Martin winds an arm around him. They sit as they have done so many times before. Filming will start in a week or two. Things are rather all right. "But Amanda isn't into it, and she kept nagging me until I found someone who was. Actually, she found him. Old mate of mine, as it turned out: bit of a surprise to both of us. Funny old world."

Ben blinks. This isn't... No. There is no place in his mind into which this can fit.

"D'you know, I worried, I really did, but she says she loves me, no matter who I tie up and beat about the arse. I'm such a lucky, pervy old bastard."

Ben feels the flicker of a cramp. His shoulder, maybe. "S.. sorry..."

Martin twitches, pulling away from him. "Shit, no! I'm the sorry cock in this scenario, Ben. I thought you knew; I thought I'd told you! I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. This sort of thing's not for you; I know that. OK?" He frowns. "Ben? You OK?" 

Ben rises quietly and makes it to the bathroom just in time.

* * *

He's become quite the expert at avoiding Martin's calls by now. Texts are harder; little bits of them pop up unbidden. In the end, he turns his phone off. There is nothing rational about his pain and panic; his pattern of behavior inexcusable, but it is what it is. He knows he has no right to this directionless sense of betrayal and jealousy, that he is owed nothing; that he is acting like a child. Mostly, he sleeps. He talks to his mum. He tosses words around until they stick on screen and worries them into semi-coherency, then presses 'send'. And waits and waits and waits. 

And waits. New Zealand was never as far away as Hertfordshire, right now. 

_Oh, Ben,_ the text says. Oh, Ben. He can hear it. He can feel it. 

He picks up the phone.

And rocks don't fall. And people don't die.


End file.
